In Italy, there are no laws, nor have there ever been, that discriminate against people based on their sexual orientation. We say this not just to console our dull present or cheer up our far more melancholy future, but because, in our opinion, it is a historical fact that reveals at least two characteristics of our country: sincerely and lightheartedly indifferent and tolerant, profoundly and deceptively hypocritical, yet always ready to resort to a certain punitive ferocity. No laws, therefore, but often family turmoil and tragedies, devastating psychological torment, hostility, tension and derision in the workplace, blackmailing silences, threatening innuendos, and insults.
Domenico Fisichella
Sometimes even worse. Let's take an example: on page 75 of the Panorama issue released on July 2nd (no. 28 for those who want to read up), alongside a feature on Roman summer nights, a photo is published taken at the Gay Village, an event that for the second consecutive summer has depopulated the capital, bringing together gays, straights, bisexuals, confused, indifferent, nervous, sweaty, even families looking for a breath of fresh air in the summer heat. The incriminating photo portrays from above a group of guys (but a woman is also visible), almost all bare-chested: two are kissing, two are about to kiss, others are crowding around. In front, passing by, a young man wearing a T-shirt is looking around with the impression of looking for someone. That gentleman is Dario Mattiello, head of Domenico Fisichella's secretariat.
Dr. Mattiello is staying at the Gay Village with a group of friends he's lost track of and is searching for amidst the crowd. Photographer Luigi Narici of the AGF agency, who doesn't know who the man is, takes dozens of photos to sell to the newspapers. So far, nothing exceptional.
But when the Panorama issue comes before Senator Fisichella's eyes, it nearly causes a stroke in the vice president of the Senate, who evidently considers the photo evidence of a crime. If not a crime, then a sin.
If not a sin, or an indecency, and in any case, inappropriate, reprehensible, disgusting, take your pick. The Sunday after the weekly's release, Fisichella spoke, as usual, on the phone with his secretary, who had been working on his staff for eight years, with merits that everyone—Fisichella first and foremost—had always and amply recognized.
No mention of the photo. On Tuesday, July 6th, however, Fisichella, cold, haughty, detached, and simultaneously inquisitorial as only he can be, can no longer contain himself and unleashes a sort of Holy Inquisition, a mixture of surprise, disgust, and a moralistic tirade ("these things just aren't done") against his official, guilty of walking (dressed, very dressed, we swear; composed, very composed, you can verify) in front of a photographer's flashbulb at a public event. In short, the affair concludes with a stern reprimand, a little homework ("prepare a written report for me"), and a piece of advice: "Stay home for three days to let the matter settle." Frankly, what there is to settle, to settle, to purify, even we, who were never naive, not even when we were breastfeeding, can't really fathom. In any case, Dr. Mattiello, more stunned than we, who are listening to the story, complies.
But that didn't do much good. A couple of days later, a member of Fisichella's secretariat called him and announced a letter signed by the indignant big boss, giving him his sack. The letter duly arrived. Out, fired, out of the way! No justification, of course.
Just a cold, telegraphic farewell.
Fisichella, after all, won't even deign to speak to the man who for many years assisted him in such a delicate task. The moral? There isn't one. Or, you choose.
